


You Know That It's True

by redroseinsanity



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 5+1 Things, As a social construct, Being so in love it hurts, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Implied Relationship, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weddings, idk what this is okay, kind of??, more or less, that's what it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28339887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redroseinsanity/pseuds/redroseinsanity
Summary: A laugh takes flight from Suga’s throat and it feels much like releasing his soul, like planting a piece of himself here, with Daichi. Putting a flag down at this specific point in time and space, to mark it, a scrapbook page of them in their personal histories,here we are. The night shines like day, the stars are magenta and here he is, the beginning and the end.The five times Daichi and Suga get married and the one time they actually get married.
Relationships: Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	You Know That It's True

**Author's Note:**

> Was meant to be for Daichi's birthday but this is so self-indulgent it's pretty much for my birthday (which is not even close lol)
> 
> Also let's all pretend we live in a wonderful world wherein people are allowed to marry who they want.

**One - August 2012**

Suga can't tell if the fluorescent lights in this fast food joint are too bright or if he's so tired that his pupils are failing to function adequately. 

He blinks sloth-like, charting the world with the shutter of his lashes, a photograph that develops in his memory, getting clearer by the second and more vivid in hindsight. The world is Daichi, with exhaustion softening his frame and frustration mussing up his hair, it’s Daichi - solid and anchoring even as they cling to laptops as though they’re rafts in the drift and pull of 2am. 

The edges of the night outside transmute into something else as they pass through the filter of the fast food joint, the only place on campus open past midnight. Here, reality is a suspended space, every inhale is of air that doesn’t exist outside of this liminality, a snapshot constantly on rewind. 

“You okay?” Suga follows the voice until he finds Daichi, worried dark eyes and soft lips, and it feels as though they’re underwater, every movement slow, the teeny pop song over the speakers muffled. _Nothing here is real but you._

“Why is it that the week before finals is the week that everything else is due?” Is what he says instead, the words pushing out whiny and slurred by sleep deprivation. 

“It’s only our first year,” Daichi tells him with a wry smile, there should be anxiety that climbs into his words, into their skin, but Suga smiles back and there’s only a slight hilarity that inches into the paper-strewn space between them. 

“Come on, time for a break,” Suga proclaims and staggers off to the counter for what’s probably the fifth time since they set up camp in the tiny corner booth. The new employee on this shift manning the cashier has only seen Suga twice this evening so they can’t judge Suga for ordering an ice cream on top of two sodas and more fried food yet. Or maybe they can, but Suga considers this survival instinct, the way bears eat more so they can hibernate in winter. 

The side of Daichi’s mouth twitches ever so minutely when Suga sets the laden tray down, but he simply takes a long pull of the soda, as though by drinking enough he can replace his blood with grape flavoured sugar water. 

“It’s two more weeks before this is over,” Suga wags a fry in Daichi’s direction, careful not to splatter chilli sauce on the pages of course packs and meticulously highlighted phrases; no time has elapsed since they sat down, since he started reading, since he went to get food, but their finals plod endlessly toward them. 

“Two more weeks until that roadtrip,” Daichi’s voice is smooth like honey, coating the aches and the jarring angles of his bones until he can almost forget that he hasn’t slept in what feels like a year. 

“Forge on for the roadtrip!” Suga declares, brandishing an onion ring this time until the golden circlet catches his attention and then he’s holding it up in front of Daichi, unfiltered and silly.

“With this ring, I promise we shall survive hell week!” It’s a bit too loose but he shoves it on Daichi’s finger anyway, he doesn’t even check which finger, just picks the one that looks like it would accommodate the fried ring and goes for broke.

Daichi chuckles and digs through the little paper holder, darkened with oil and adorned with tiny specks of brown, until he finds another onion ring, the smallest Suga has seen in this batch. 

“In good grades and in bad grades,” Daichi professes, his dark eyes alight with something that makes Suga want to float here with him forever, to carve out this eternity hiding from the sunrise, “Through take home assignments and stupid 6pm exams.”

They’re giggling as Daichi slides it on Suga’s finger, the right finger on the right hand, it’s a loose sound, it’s a weightless sensation. The world is a corner booth and two onion rings. 

**Two - January 2014**

Three months is too long a period to go without Suga. There’s no ‘but’ in that statement, even though there may be upsides to them being apart or Suga being on an exchange programme in a different country. That statement holds true without proof, he misses Suga and that is all there is, all there needs to be. 

In the blur of a foreign country, Daichi considers that perhaps drowning is like this, all vague shapes and half-familiar things in a sea that never stops moving. But there, in the middle of it all, amidst the passengers loading luggage into trunks and flight crews trotting smartly past families, is a beacon. 

Suga is the scent of your house when you first step through your door, the way all your clothes smell the same and that place down the street that knows your order before you even open your mouth. With him, the wild fear of suddenly being lost, of being the non-functioning cog in a well-oiled watch, trips into the exhilaration of being invisible in a brand new place. 

Daichi lifts Suga with ease before burrowing his nose into a collarbone that’s padded by layers of wool and soft material. 

“You look well,” he murmurs, drinking him in — a Suga that isn’t withheld by video lags and pixelated visuals, whose voice isn’t hijacked by bad signal and distilled into three parts like a robot before getting cut off, choppy and broken. 

Suga only hugs him tighter, the buckles of Daichi’s bag digging into his arms and shoulders but they’re simply evidence that this is real. 

“There’s a really good eatery I need to bring you to and oh, the bakery opposite my apartment has the _best_ bread, and we need to go to that place I was telling you about,” Suga rattles off into Daichi’s shoulder, as though afraid he’ll forget even though they’ve been planning this visit since before Suga left. He pulls back, hazel eyes snagging on chocolate ones, there’s a fondness in his gaze, an honesty that flits like a butterfly, “Three months is too long.”

They take a day trip, a long bus ride with a local tour group that brings them into one of the oldest parts of the country, all marvelous, crumbling architecture and quaint, squat buildings. It’s a day that has sunshine pooling in every crevice, almost too bright to be lovely and yet, it is. 

Suga holds his hand the entire bus ride, even as the guide’s voice washes over them in a droning tone that threatens to send them dozing, their fingers interlock and as they pass a row of trees, the red flashes of sun skip off their hands and wrists in the rhythm of a heartbeat. 

Their hands stay clasped together even as they wander through this quietly bustling town, one eye on the guide so as not to fall behind, one eye on this pocket of the world that they get to experience together. 

A smiling couple with greying hair and deep laugh lines welcome the group into the museum house, a traditional home, the guide says. It used to belong to the couple before they gave it to the cultural heritage board and moved into a smaller, more modern place. 

Here, the guide takes on the role of the translator instead as the couple talks about the flooring of the living room and the spices found in the kitchen, they describe life as it was fifty years ago, then a hundred, and show the group what the bedroom looks like. 

Each room has its own little signboard, is its own interactive exhibit, Daichi tugs Suga to take a closer look, attempting to parse the letters on smooth panels. The group flows into an area filled with costumes from different time periods and the guests are encouraged to try them on, there’s already a little space cleared, a stage and a photographer waiting for them to indulge. 

Daichi hesitates a little, but only until the first couple surges forward and is almost immediately presented with a glossy image fitted into a themed paper frame. A physical memory. He turns and Suga’s already holding something up, it looks dark and opulent, richly embroidered and immaculately detailed. 

“It’ll look good on your skin,” Suga grins and Daichi takes it, moves to the side to cautiously begin donning it, terrified that he’ll rip something beyond repair. 

The lady in the couple has noticed them and with a broad smile on her face, she bends with a muted sigh and comes up holding an outfit out to Suga, making a small gesture at Daichi before proffering the attire. 

Although Suga has been here for three months, his vocabulary is miserably limited so it’s a game of charades, but one that he can easily guess the answer to. Shrugging off his bag, he gently pulls on the wide sleeved top and the intricately designed bottom, and once they’re done, they make their way to the photo taking area. 

Only as they settle in for the shot does the guide bounce over, excitement colouring his voice. 

“This is the traditional wedding outfit!” He goes on to point out the symbolism of each pattern stitched into the cloth, before launching into wedding customs. The tips of Daichi’s ears have tinted red but there’s a mischievous glint in Suga’s eye that makes his stomach swoop, everything is almost overwhelmingly alien but Suga is a cornerstone in the wilderness. 

“You mean like this?” Suga asks, carefully lowering into a bow not unlike the one that the guide has just outlined as a crucial part of the wedding. Completely committed now, the guide makes minor adjustments to Suga’s form and then nods approvingly. From where he’s practically nose-to-floor, Suga cranes his neck to shoot Daichi a look that’s both a question and an invitation, a dare and a proposal. 

His limbs suddenly feel too long, his elbows are too heavy then his hands are placed too high, Daichi feels that he’s doing a million things wrong, but he sinks into a mirroring bow and in his peripheral vision, there’s glimpse of silver and his breathing steadies, he shifts into a more perfect form. 

There’s the vague sound of a camera clicking and following Suga’s lead, they adopt the next two positions fluidly, tracking each other’s motions as though they were on the court, each exhale in sync as the guide gives instructions and they follow each other following him. 

Three months have passed since they last met, but it feels as though it’s only been a beat, only the fleeting half second that a dancer releases a partner’s hand to twirl before fingers slip easily back into the waiting grasp, ready to be pulled back into the dance.

They come away with two perfect shots, each one looking as though it could have come out of a history book on wedding customs. They’ve bent to the exact degree, arranged in the traditional layout and performing the rites without words. 

The third shot is of them in transition to the last position, almost there but not quite, an artist’s sketch before it gets turned into a polished piece. It’s a masterpiece though, Daichi thinks, the way movement is captured in the stillness, how they reflect each other, the moon and the sun, the sun and the moon, the exchange of glances that speak entire multitudes hidden in the rustle of cloth and the brush of breath across floor. 

**Three - March 2015**

Suga is so drunk that the sky only seems to stop spinning when he takes another drink, so he does and the liquid burns all the way down his throat, sets him on fire on the inside the way Daichi’s touch ignites his skin. 

The stars blend into the neon signs that line The Strip and Suga holds out his hand, it is a truth that Daichi will be at the end of it, fingers firmly intertwined with his even though Daichi is faring no better, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol. 

About to start work, about to plunge into the world of adulting, of shifts that clash and bone-deep exhaustion that infringes on weekends and weekday evenings, this is their last splurge — a celebration of liberation that they’ll likely never know again. Not in this way, heady and wide-eyed, cheeks aching from smiling so much, with the universe spread out ahead of them, deep purples hues like an oyster shell. 

A laugh takes flight from Suga’s throat and it feels much like releasing his soul, like planting a piece of himself here, with Daichi. Putting a flag down at this specific point in time and space, to mark it, a scrapbook page of them in their personal histories, _here we are. The night shines like day, the stars are magenta and here he is, the beginning and the end._

One of them trips on air, in the haze no one can be sure who, but they stumble and right themselves, panting smiles and fumbling hands catching on forearms and sleeves. The thrill of being unaccountable, of being unknown, of simply being a pair of lovers on the street with no name, no identity, nothing but their emotions to distinguish them is a thrill that thrums through their veins, coursing like adrenaline but sharper, more addictive. 

“I love you,” Daichi breathes into the capsule of space between them, the words coming like an undercurrent that threatens to sweep Suga off his feet, just as it does every time Daichi says it. It’s the way he says it, each syllable drenched in intensity, as though it’s imperative that Suga hears it, understands it, remembers it. 

“Daichi,” Suga is laden with emotion, he will never recover, never wants to recover from the wealth of feelings that well up and fill him until he’s certain he will combust from how much he adores the man in front of him. 

“Whatever happens, as long as I have you and you have me,” Daichi is radiant, Suga wants to kiss him and so he does, easily and without a thought. He kisses the words off Daichi’s lips, tasting vodka and elation, “You’re the most important thing in my life.”

Suga is preoccupied with Daichi in macro, the slight stubble on his jaw and how his lips feel, how he smells so certainly like Daichi in the middle of everything else, how the lights illuminate him in a halo of colours. He nods belatedly, the words processing sluggishly although the accompanying sentiment cuts through, hits home. 

“You and me,” He repeats and it’s a vow in three words, the letters dangling off his tongue, the sweetest aftertaste lingering in his mouth. Daichi brushes a lock of silver from a damp forehead, eyes suddenly lighting up as he skims the variety of signs. 

“Always,” Daichi affirms before nudging Suga around until a brilliantly gaudy sign flashes at them. There’s a slight pause that would be a harrowing couple of seconds were they sober as Suga stares and struggles to compute, but it passes when Suga begins to pat himself down until he comes up with a keychain.

“I got a ring,” He proudly announces, holding the keychain ring aloft, and then they’re giggling and lurching over to the venue pointed out by the blinking arrow. 

The night feels the way a dream does, saturated in the concentrate of a single emotion that distills throughout, trickling through until it prefigures their speech and lingers in the aftermath of their kisses. 

Daichi’s face is tinged pink by the assortment of stained light that rains down on them and in Suga’s memory, everything is veiled by a coloured glow, a dream in technicolour.

“Yes,” He says, beaming into Daichi’s face, without hearing what’s being said, but to Daichi the answer is only ever one thing, “Yes.”

Waking up in Vegas is not ever as glamorous as it sounds and sleep is a mire that Suga is pulled from in ebbs and waves of wakefulness until he is fully on the shore of consciousness, his eyes gritty and his throat like a desert. 

“Never again,” Daichi groans and the sunlight filtering through thin curtains is far too bright to be morning light, but oh, there’s something magical about waking up with a lover, slow and languid. Even with the ache in his head and the sleep that lines his movements, Suga pauses mid-movement getting out of bed just to watch the way the dust motes quiver and dance in the air, the way the light spills over bare arm and bare chest, to cartograph the strength of Daichi’s brow and the lines of his neck. 

“Daichi,” Is all he needs to say when he comes back from the bathroom, significantly more awake than before, the gravity of a silver band alarming. Daichi is already one step ahead, crumpled pages in one hand and phone in the other as he tries to scan the English words into something understandable. 

The rings are new, that much Suga knows, but the details slip out of his grasp and wiggle away into the recesses of memories that only surface much, much later. 

“It wasn’t real, we didn’t have enough money to buy the marriage license,” Daichi says and there’s a note of palpable relief in his voice that they both hear. Immediately, Daichi turns to Suga, urgent in his fear of a misunderstanding but Suga is already there, already in his arms and pressing one gentle hand to cup the face he loves so much. 

“I know,” He does, and if this were someone else, if this were another story, he wouldn’t and there would be tears and accusations, the fissure of hearts and the sharp slap of accusations. But this is Daichi and he is Suga and this is them, “Me too. I do, but not like this.”

“I want to remember it,” Daichi tells him, turning to kiss the palm that frames his face, dark lashes fluttering as he gazes at Suga over the heel of his hand, “I want to remember you at every second of it.”

**Four - May 2018**

_A hospital is no place for a wedding_ , _but_ , Suga thinks, with a violent tremble of his chin, _death has no business with his grandmother either and yet, and yet._

Any preparation for this has been scant but that’s not the point. The rings aren’t ready and the person they’ve hired to officiate is not who they wanted but it’s who was available, and their friends aren’t there but their families are, but that’s not the point. 

The point is razor-sharp and punctures the fabric of their existence in the span of weeks, with the quick precision of a midnight ride to the hospital in an ambulance and the brutal finality of the doctor’s diagnosis. 

Suga’s grandmother drifts in and out of sleep, her face peaceful even as machines beep around her and that is a consolation that Suga clutches at and doesn’t let go of. The moments in which she is awake are far and few between and of those, the times that she is lucid are dwindling. 

The roof of his world is crumbling and there’s nothing he can do but watch as the sky peels itself off the ceiling, and wait for it to tumble to the ground. His hands are woefully, pathetically small, a speck in the immensity of this destruction and helplessly distant, unreachable even if he tries to run upward, to claw his way up into the air to hold up the fracturing galaxy. 

The sky is falling and Suga sits in dull anticipation, so Daichi suggests this, suggests an air balloon, a jet plane, proposes rushing upward in a gust of hot wind to meet the sky. 

Time doesn’t wait for anyone and Suga finds himself racing to catch up, out of breath and with an ache in his chest that doesn’t go away, and still, he falls short.

They find a pattern in her wakings and pull together a small affair, tiny lights strung around the room, a cake in the flavour that Daichi and Suga liked when they went to a tasting, the witnesses and the certificates, the smiles that wobble just an iota if you stare too long. 

Perhaps it’s fate that when Suga’s grandmother opens her eyes, they’re clear and wise, observant as they were fifteen years ago when she could guess who was the one who had stolen the sweets she’d left out to cool with just a narrowing of her eyes and a knowing smile. 

“Is someone having a party?” She asks, her voice unwavering and if Suga just closes his eyes he can pretend that he’s eight again and still clinging to her, still small enough to hide behind her and believe she was infallible. He tries to speak but the sorrow comes up instead of words and he seals his lips to prevent the anguish from spilling out in a sob. There’s a pregnant silence punctuated by the beats of his grandmother’s heart, the tiny mechanical beeps insufficient and inadequate in the face of this.

“We wanted you to be at our wedding, Baba,” Daichi even manages a small smile as he cradles the knobby, wrinkled hand in his, his voice only shaking a little. Her expression doesn’t change, as though she had known the answer even before she asked and then she smiles, serene and doting in the way only grandmothers are able to. 

With a single practiced gesture, she motions for Suga to move and he scrambles to the edge of her bed without thinking, hand already reaching for hers, veined and bearing the marks of hardship and toil. 

Another shuffle and flurry of movement as they rush to help her sit up, propping her on a mountain of soft pillows and re-tucking the blanket around her. Comfort is Suga’s knee pushing against Daichi’s outer thigh, a warm steady thing because the hands they hold feel cool to the touch and they’re hands they recognise but made uncanny by the drip feeding into one and the hospital bracelet around the other.

“My Koushi,” She says, indulgent and it nearly shatters him, has him feverishly committing this to memory, the tone of her voice and the lilt of his name. 

“Daichi, my Daichi,” A firm hand stroking Daichi’s dark head before patting his cheek and picking his hand up again. 

The air conditioning hums and it’s nothing like the lullabies she used to hum when he couldn’t sleep. His white shirt wrinkles as he leans in closer to her, pulling himself in, as though if he tried hard enough he could tuck himself into the curl of her body and stay there, erase the solemn faces around them, the stark, plain walls and the damning diagnosis neatly filed away.

“Do you two promise to care for each other no matter what, no matter how?” Hospital lights are unforgiving and they bare to the world all your emotions, all your pain, but they also highlight the way Daichi’s eyes flick to Suga, throws a spotlight on the tenderness that skirts his expression.

“Always,” Daichi utters, low and sure, it’s a certainty set against time that outraces everyone. The world blurs to just the three of them, everything fading into soft focus until it suddenly stands with supreme clarity just them, just the people who matter. 

“Yes, I do,” Suga tells her, equally steady, equally sure. 

“Well, that’s all I needed to hear,” She gives their hands a squeeze and tears crest on Suga’s lashes but refuse to fall, “I don’t need anything else now.”

The fairy lights overcome the hospital bulbs and mellow the room into something soft, peaceful. It feels as though the room sighs, a resonant heave of grief or of relief that loosens in Suga’s chest. The heart is a muscle, a wound, to soldier on even when we think we cannot, to ache with every laboured thump as we do. There are cake slices on plates and cake crumbs on the edges of Daichi’s mouth, Suga is a bird and the sky is wherever he takes flight. 

**Five - June 2020**

Daichi had always thought a wedding would be a carousel. A blur of colours, of figures that you vaguely recognise that loom up in beat with the music and recede as another pops up. He expected the gaudy designs and flash of mirrors to overpower everything else, the blare of an unrecognisable tune to blend into white noise and play on repeat until everyone is gone. 

On a carousel, it seems like fun while you’re waiting in line, when you’re picking your garishly designed favourite animal, even when it just begins and your stomach whooshes with the rise and fall of your steed. Up until the hard seat gets uncomfortable and the painted faces start to look strange and the music grates on your nerves. 

Instead, Daichi finds Suga at every turn. 

“Hello, Sugawara san,” Suga says, popping out from thin air, his voice teasing, light, like champagne bubbles. Daichi can’t stop the smile that breaks across his face, a ripple spreading from the name that lands on the surface that is him. _Sugawara san, that’s me now. Suga and his husband, Sugawara san_ , and it’s like the smile isn’t enough to capture the joy that’s spilling out. 

Every rotation he makes, Suga is there; laughing with their friends, calling for yet another toast, pulling Daichi in for the billionth photograph. 

He's there in the flutter of a traditional kimono in the morning, framed by wisteria in a shrine. 

He's there in the voice that Daichi catches, the low murmur of their vows, the bright laughter that floats through the air, the snippets that weave and waft towards him even if Suga doesn't seem very nearby at all. 

He's there in the brief brush of lips over cheek as Suga leans in to sneak a sip of water, the fleeting contact of a hand trailing mid-air until it kisses Daichi's elbow, and the snug pull of arm around waist as they thank guests for making time and pose for the camera. 

He feels as though he's chasing Suga, who's seated on the opposite side of the carousel, smiling at each turn but never any closer, never close enough. 

They catch a pocket of time when no one is clamouring for their attention and then it's just them. 

"How is it that-" Daichi takes a moment to locate his vocal cords, "How is it that every time I see you, you're more beautiful than ever?"

The heart is a flower strewn garden and artfully draped in layers of vibrant pinks and reds, the fallen blossoms lie in a trail that leads to Suga, always to Suga. 

He longs for a director to come out and yell, 'Cut!', for this scene to end so that the performance will too. As though that way, they can blink into the next part, the following chapter, and he can snatch Suga up and run, until they reach a place that belongs to just them. 

But their names are called and more toasts to their happiness are made, they get back on the merry-go-round and Daichi resumes chasing endlessly in a slew of light and sound and laughter. 

They have forever. 

Daichi's heartbeat steadies, the impatience subsiding into a whisper as he looks up and finds his husband with ease. _We have time_ , he catches a hazel gaze and smiles even as someone topples a glass and another person bellows his name. 

A carousel ride ends eventually, Daichi knows this. A garden if well-tended, can be perennially in bloom. 

Across the room, Suga winks.

**Four and a half - June 2019**

Suga wants Daichi. It's as simple as that, a straightforward equation that should bring him to an easily calculated answer. 

Instead complications become variables and his problem sum becomes muddled by the uncertainty of a venue booking and how quickly their tailor can work, by the inability to find a suitable florist and select a menu that will cater to everyone's taste. 

It's static, the way this web of lines criss-cross over the beat of Suga's heart when every thump ought to be clear. Every rhythmic throb of it only says Daichi's name, but it's not at all resonant. Not when all these nitty gritty fine details interfere with the sound waves, when the beat of _Daichi, Daichi, Daichi_ is drowned out by the sounds of venue viewings being scratched into planners and the apologetic voice over the phone telling him nothing is available for the date they've chosen. 

He tells Daichi this in incoherent sentences on Saturday evening, voice so calm it sounds almost lifeless and Daichi just looks at him. Those chocolate brown eyes parsing him in a way no one can, bypassing the lack of inflection in his tone and the carefully neutral expression. 

And then there's a flurry of movement in and out of rooms, the weight of a bagpack pressed into his hand, a slipping out of their apartment like teenagers sneaking off to a rendezvous, a breathless rush to the train station. 

"Run away with me."

They only have less than a weekend, Suga knows this; they have no destination in mind, he also knows this; the tickets they book are for a shinkansen departing in two minutes, he only discovers it's heading south after they collapse into their seats just as the doors glide shut, panting and flushed. 

Suga also knows this, wherever this train goes, wherever they end up, Daichi will be beside him, warm hand in his. The rest of the world can go to pieces and Suga thinks that he can remain untouched like this, watching it through the tempered glass of a late night train ride and the knowledge that Daichi is here, constant as the waves breaking on the shore.

Daichi feels Suga fall asleep, the way his entire body goes lax, his breathing evening out and his head growing even heavier where it rests on Daichi's arm. It's a weight he will willingly carry until time runs out, as long as the earth turns, as long as Suga will let him.

Wedding planning can wait, all of this and all of them can wait, but not this. Not watching the smile blossom over Suga's face as they race down the stairs to catch their shinkansen, or the way he turns to Daichi when they catch their breaths, brilliant and rosy, more alive than life itself. 

Part of him wishes they could never get off this train and stay like this, with the twilight scenery blurring past and nowhere to be, no one to be - just them, two people in love. At the end of the day, he doesn’t want to be remembered by the size of the banquet hall or the date they chose or the kimono designs they end up donning; what he wants to be left of him is the way he looked at Suga and the things he’s said that has made Suga snort with laughter and the dinners they have and the mornings they share. 

All that is _worth_ remembering, at the end of all of it, is his emotion. 

By the time the train deposits them at a darkened station, the yellow lights flashing by faster and faster until they are left in sudden silence with a gust of wind, it is in the wee hours of the morning. But time and space don't exist now. Not in the train, when they were constantly between places, always almost somewhere and just past somewhere else; not at this station that looks like every other station in a prefecture he forgot after it was announced; not when the night is no longer the clock ticking or the hours to daybreak but a state of being. 

"Let's walk," Suga says, eyes shining, and so they do. 

Here, in the blanket of darkness, the night air is heavy with the deep, musky fragrance of flowers that only unfurl their petals after sundown. The rasp of their footsteps syncopate with their breathing until sound whittles down to this odd cadence and the steady, absolute sound of his heart. 

_Daichi, Daichi, Daichi._

When the faintest strains of light find them, they're on a shrine bench, listening to their muscles protest and watching the silhouette of a crane as it scans for fish. It is early enough that the birds have yet to begin their song and they are seemingly caught in that fleeting inhale that the world takes before launching into the day, that minute pause before everything unravels into motion. 

This getaway, this escape, is an inhale in itself, a gasp for breath after being caught in the undertow of planning and meeting expectations, setbacks and endless compromises. 

This is all Suga wants, the serenity of a shrine at daybreak and Daichi, an answer that he never needs to ask for. 

"I don't like that we have to jump through hoops to get married," He sighs, and Daichi squeezes his hand with a knowing hum, his fingers press into Daichi’s grip tight enough that he can almost feel Daichi’s pulse, a steady tempo that he can tie his own heartbeat to.

Now that they’ve taken that breath, all there is to do is breathe out. 

"I just want you," He says and the words float out with the air, the syllables rolling off his tongue in a rush, "Just you. Let's be happy."

Above them, the wisteria flutters in the breeze, buoyed by the wind and brushing over their shoulders. At this time of the year, the morning air is crisp and faintly scented with the hint of overnight blooms. 

"Marry me," Daichi is alight even though sunlight has yet to grace the strong features of his face. Suga doesn't need morning to come to know what his fiance's expression is like, he has it and even in the soft darkness, he affixes it to the shadows that make up Daichi, painting his lover by memory and taking the time to go through the charcoal strokes that etch out the line of Daichi's nose and the fullness of his lips. 

"I already said yes," Suga bumps his shoulder against Daichi's, "That's why we're tearing our hair out about seating arrangements and everything in between."

And Daichi smiles, a smile so bold and bright that it's defiantly clear even without the wisps of light that graze his cheeks. 

"No, I mean now. Today. Whatever we do after this will be for everyone else, but this one will be for us. This will be the one that _counts_."

This is the worst idea, the most impossible, impractical suggestion, and the perfect solution. Suga feels his mouth lift in a smile before he can even fully process it, because it's Daichi. Because it's Daichi and unfailingly, unhesitatingly, the answer is: "Yes."

They've spent so much time chasing the future so that they can have good memories, something to look back on. They plan and agonise and attempt to fix what will be into what they wish to remember, a constant reach into what lies ahead so that they can tether themselves to what had gone before. 

But as day breaks, there is only the sure steps up to the altar and the striking peals of the bell, the low murmur of the first priest they could find and the cold kiss of porcelain when the sake cup touches their lips. 

There is no tomorrow or last night or next year, there is only them and the way dawn seems to rise on Suga's face and the well of emotion in Daichi's eyes; them and the conspiratorial whisper of their rented kimonos as they bow; them and the certainty in their voices.

Daichi knows the logical, mathematical probabilities of this relationship ending, understands the emotional, mental possibilities of falling for someone else and still, he looks at Suga and knows a single, burning truth. _I'll never love anyone like this again._

Daichi could have married Suga a thousand times before and he will want to marry him a thousand times over. In any country, any place, any time, with any ring or any rite. 

He wants to tie himself to this man until there are no strings of his left unfettered and billowing in the wind. Wants to give himself until there is no part of him that is not Suga's. 

They don't need each other, they're not dependent on each other, they function perfectly well apart, as their own person. But he wants to. He wants to cleave to Suga, to entwine their lives to the point that he can't tell where one ends and the other begins. 

To love him until it's muscle memory to and then to forget it so that he can learn to love him all over again. 

_I will._ He vows silently, as the words he repeats after the priest dance off his tongue and into the amber morning air. 

(And he does, and they do.) 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought or come hmu on [tumblr](https://redroseinsanity.tumblr.com/) !  
>    
> I tried to keep the various wedding customs kind of vague where I could and did my best to research where I couldn't, but if something is terribly wrong or offensive please let me know (comment or message me on tumblr!)


End file.
